The jacket that my father wore had patches / stitched onto those spots where elbows rub, such / trusty supports. Day in, day out the ancient jerkin / was hanging on his chair – The world won’t have

The stuff to patch this monstrous hole. The single / question left is whether both of the ravens came? / Last night I saw the third fly-off the corner roof, / it crowed and roused its shriek into a hearty laugh.

Beneath Manhattan buried, in a stranger’s frigid bed / just as it had welcomed you, when cast by Russia here. / Perhaps, in fact, upon a slope that leans towards straits / to catch your heaven in its nets. And stirred up so / by low tides lapping, sunk down to bottom’s ground.

The room araund him a light collage, / he sits in the armchair by the window / reviewing, labelling, following the trail / that rises from the old boxes, the signatures / of the photography studios / loses himself / in the portraits, the flat eyes.